


Running

by acaelousqueadcentrum



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:32:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6455992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaelousqueadcentrum/pseuds/acaelousqueadcentrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe life should be about more than just surviving.  Maybe someone has to be willing to fight for better.</p>
<p>Or, </p>
<p>Clexa Political AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running

“Have you seen the news?” **  
**

The local independent paper was tossed onto her desk without ceremony, almost spilling the can of Diet Coke sitting there next to her laptop.

**Felonious Jaha Not to Seek Re-Election**

Lexa’s initial annoyance quickly dispersed as she read the headline a second time, and then a third, before moving to skim the article beneath.

“How the hell did Gus get this scoop,” she wondered aloud, lunch forgotten now. “I thought he was _persona non grata_ after that rally at the old projects’ demolition.”

The tall, dark woman dropped into a chair across from Lexa and lifted her feet to rest on the edge of the desk, ignoring the slight glare and raised eyebrow.

“Freedom of the fucking press, I’d imagine,” Indra said roughly. The aborted rally against Jaha’s project to tear down block after block of low-income housing and replace it with condos was still a sore subject. “And it’s not like Jaha can have him banned from the public offices–we’re all part of his constituency, after all.”

She shook her head, “But in this case, one of that motley crew he calls a writing staff has been sleeping with a closet-case in Jaha’s intern pool who swears that it’s true. Representative Jaha will be stepping down from his seat in November.”

But Lexa didn’t respond. She was too busy reading through the article.

Indra, no stranger to her young friend’s depth of focus, reached over to grab at the uneaten half of Lexa’s abandoned sandwich, licking at a bit of mustard that dripped onto her thumb.

“Indra, this sounds legitimate,” Lexa said, her voice full of unacknowledged, confused, emotion. Like she’s not sure if she’s supposed to be happy or excited or what.  “Thelonius Jaha isn’t going to run this year. Do you know what this means?”

And she should have seen it coming. But she’d been broadsided by the news.

“Well, actually,” Indra said, swinging her feet down and leaning forward, “about that–”

~ * ~

The light on her answering machine was blinking angrily at her by the time Clarke emerged from the attic garret that served as her studio. But she ignored it in favor of the fridge, the leftover pizza she knew was in there eating for her.

Except–it wasn’t.

She’d eaten it that morning.

Or maybe yesterday morning.

It didn’t matter. Either way there was almost nothing in her fridge, and probably less in her cupboards.  

She sighed and reached for her phone to text Octavia. If she was going to have to drive all the way out to town, she might as well take care of business on the way.

A little more than an hour later, she’d carefully arranged several large canvasses into the back of her truck, each wrapped in layers of old bed sheets and plastic bubble wrap.

_{ Leaving now. Be there this time, Tavi. }_

_{ I mean it, if you’re not there I’ll tell Bell all about what really happened to his truck last Fourth. }_

She expected the response to be rude, but it still made her laugh to see the single middle finger emoji her closest friend sent.

It put her in just the right mood to listen to the messages her mother left on her cell after she got tired of trying the landline.

_[ Clarke, it’s your mother. I need you to call me back. ]_

_[ Clarke, really, I know you’re there. You’re always there. This is ridiculous. ]_

_[ Listen, Clarke, this has gone on long enough. Your birthday is coming up, and you know what that means. It’s time for you to act like a Griffin and live up to your father’s name. ]_

_[ I expect you at the house by 11 a.m. Friday morning. I’ve made an appointment at the lawyer’s and we’re lunching at the club after. Dress appropriately. ]_

The last message was the coldest, the most forceful, Abby clearly having lost patience with Clarke’s refusal to acknowledge her mother. The instructions regarding her wardrobe sounded as though Abby was speaking through clenched teeth, a tight jaw.

It didn’t surprise Clarke that her mother would get the most worked up over her appearance. Most of their arguments during her lonely childhood had been about Clarke’s looks, her wardrobe. Whether her hair should be pulled back or loose and curly. How much makeup she should be wearing, what color she dyed her hair. It had started early, the strong-willed toddler putting up a fuss over thick, scratchy tights and high, starched collars. And it only got worse from there.

She’d just never fit into the picture her mother’d had in her head, the image of what Abby thought her daughter should look like, act like, be like.

Honestly, after her dad died, after there’d been no one to stand between them and act the umpire, kiss their foreheads and make them laugh, make them forget what they were fighting about, the arguments never really stopped. They just turned into one, really long conflict, a standoff with both sides firmly dug into their respective position.

For a single, blissful moment, Clarke considered not going. Considered holing up in her studio for the whole weekend, pretending–when she inevitably called her mother back–that she hadn’t seen the messages until too late. Considered running away for a few days, heading west under the pretense of visiting old college friends for her birthday.

Considered calling Abby back and just saying “no,” telling her mother she had no plans to join the family business–not now, not ever.

But all too soon, the fantasy faded.

She wouldn’t do any of those things. She couldn’t do any of those things. Despite everything, all the fights, all the angry words and disappointed looks, she loved her mother. Truly.

And more, she loved her father. In the end, the memory of him, of the happy years when they’d been a family and not a shell, would always be enough to pull her back home.

Clarke looked at the picture of the man she’d taped over the broken tape deck and sighed.

“Okay, but if she brings a stylist in this time, I’m leaving.”

She could almost hear him laughing.

 _Deal_.


End file.
